Joan Morris hums as she sets the table. Christmas carols fill the room with a merry buzz. The radio crackles from time to time, like the old vinyl used to do as it spun on her grandfather's gramophone. Joan smiles. Her chest tightens with a sweet melancholy common to holidays.

"Vickie! Dinner!"

"Okay, mama!"

Joan steps back from the table. She eyes the spread of dishes, trying to foresee potential mishaps. Vickie has been doing very well with the grown-up cups and utensils. Joan grabs the box of napkins she keeps by the microwave and places it on the table. Just in case.

"Vickie!"

There is no answer this time. Joan makes sure the oven is off, then heads for the living room. She knows there is nothing to worry about but can't help hurrying. Just wait until you have children, Joan's mother used to mutter. Joan laughs at herself. Years of grumbling about hovering parents, and look at her now.

Joan rounds a corner. The living room glows bright, cluttered with Christmas cheer. Vickie is sitting on the floor by the Christmas tree. She is surrounded by her toys - a family of plush rabbits, a plastic fire truck, and her favorite doll. When Joan had left her, the doll had been teaching the rabbits to count to ten while the fire-truck made wee-oh noises.

Only the TV's low murmur is heard now. The toys lie on the floor. The doll is in Vickie's arms, clutched tight. The girl's wide eyes reflect the TV screen. Joan glances at it herself, expecting to see Rudolph or Barbie or whatever Christmas show Cartoon Network has slotted for eight thirty on December 24th. What she finds is a sour-faced newscaster mouthing a warning about disturbing images.

Joan darts in front of the TV and jabs at the power button. The screen goes dark.

Joan's expression is calm when she turns to her daughter. Vickie smiles up at her.

"I didn't change the channel, mama."

Joan kneels by her daughter. "I know you didn't sweetie." It had been an emergency broadcast. They'd been having them more and more as Christmas neared and the body-count increased, but Joan wouldn't have expected for it to happen on a channel meant for kids. She searches Vickie's face for signs of distress. "Was the man in the suit on for long?"

"Nuh-uh. Just a little."

Vickie doesn't seem upset. Joan pushes her own fear away. She stands and offers Vickie her hand. "Alright. Dinner's all ready. Up you go."

Vickie cheers. She grips her mother's hand and scrambles to her feet.

"Marie coming with?"

Vickie pulls the doll closer. "Uh-huh. She's hungry, too."

Joan smiles. "Well, that's good. There're lots of peas and corn and yummy broccoli!"

Vickie's face scrunches up. "Eeewww," she squeals, then giggles. Marie bounces in her arms. The doll's golden curls shine, as soft and pretty as Vickie's own dark hair.

Dinner is warm and loud with laughter. There are peas, and broccoli, but there's chicken and chocolate cake as well so compromises are made. Vickie holds her grown-up mug of juice carefully. She beams after every sip, proud to no longer need her sippy-cup.

They retire to the living room after. Joan leaves the TV off and reads to Vickie instead. They're barely halfway through the story when the girl's head starts drooping against her mother's shoulder. Joan smiles and puts the book aside.

"Time for bed, I think."

"Can we open the presents now?" Vickie pleads.

Joan shakes her head. "Tomorrow, when you wake up. You'll want to play if you open them now, and it's late already."

Vickie's pout doesn't last long. She yawns and rubs at her eyes. "Okay."

"Good girl. Go brush your teeth. I'll come tuck you in."

Vickie nods. She stumbles off the couch and heads for the bathroom. Joan waits until she hears the snick of the bathroom door closing. Then she turns the TV on.

Cartoon Network is back to its marathon of Christmas specials. Joan flips through the channels until she finds the news. It doesn't take long. They've been running broadcasts with greater frequency and an increasingly narrow focus. She catches the story in the middle. It is a new one; a tenth corpse, Jesus Christ. Sam Edmonds, found dead in his car by his wife just this morning. No apparent cause.

His wristwatch had been dead, too.

"Autopsy revealed that time of death matches-"

"Mama! I'm ready!"

Joan turns off the TV. She stares at her reflection in the gray plastic for a moment. Takes a breath.

"Coming, sweetie!"

Joan helps Vickie into her pajamas. She tucks her daughter in, then places Marie next to her. Vickie burbles about Christmas morning between yawns. Lunch at grandma Ruthie, dinner with Aunt Sarah and her boys. An exciting and exhausting day, for both Joan and Vickie.

"We'll go visit papa, too, right?" the girl asks.

"Of course we will. You have your gift ready?"

"Mhm. I drew him a picture."

"He'll love it." Joan presses a kiss to Vickie's forehead. "Goodnight. No peeking under the tree until morning, or Santa might not come."

Vickie nods. She is asleep before Joan leaves the room.

Joan thinks of the chores she had meant to do after Vickie fell asleep. There are dishes to be washed in the sink, a suitcase to be prepared for their overnight stay at Sarah's. Joan can't summon the will for either. Her feet take her to the living room. She turns the TV on, telling herself she wants background noise while she prepares the presents.

The news are still going. Special report scrolls along the bottom; The Time Killer. Joan had snorted at the title the first time she'd heard it used. She doesn't feel much like laughing now. Ten people dead, including two kids under eight. No cause every time - no perpetrator, no motive. The only thing connecting the deaths are the timepieces found on the scenes. Whether a wristwatch or a grandfather clock or a plastic toy, time was always near the victim and its hands were always still. Frozen to the hour and minute and second of the victim's death.

"I don't remember buying this," a woman sobs. The video is a segment of an old report, an interview with the mother of the first child found dead. The woman had been clutching a plastic Superman alarm clock with white fingers, Joan recalls. She doesn't look at the TV to confirm.

Joan takes the presents out from their hiding place in a hollow ottoman. They are simple, one-piece toys. Joan had taken them out of their boxes as soon as she had bought them. She examines each one anew as she arranges them under the tree. No clocks. No ticking, nothing that measures time. Joan sits back on her heels. Her chest doesn't loosen. She turns off the TV and stands.

The house is small. Single-story, five rooms in total including the bathroom. Joan takes her time in each one. She had thrown away every clock in the house more than a month ago. The stove's timer has been off for about as long. Joan's mobile had gone to Goodwill the very day the second child had been discovered. She has been late for work more times than she can count and can't bring herself to care. This is the only way she can think of protecting her family.

Joan stares at the wall. Her bedroom is dark, the covers snug around her. She curls into herself on the bed and wishes Paul is there with her, as she has every day and every night since his death. They would have done their best together.

Alone and afraid, Joan feels like she is drowning on solid ground.

***

Joan wakes abruptly. Her body is disoriented and heavy, internal clock saying it is still nighttime and much too early to be up. Something must have woken her. Joan blinks sleep away. The door to her bedroom is open. She always leaves it open, as she does Vickie's.

The small figure in the doorway has Joan sitting up and turning on the bedside lamp.

"Vickie? Everything alright?"

Vickie sniffs. Joan's throat closes. The girl's cheeks are wet. She is hugging her doll tight, face half-hidden by the doll's hair. Joan throws off the covers. "Come here, sweetie."

Vickie hurries over. She clambers into the bed and her mother's arms. Soft sobs make her shoulders shake. Joan smoothes her hand over her back. "Shh, shh. Bad dream?"

Vickie shakes her head. Joan rocks her gently until she calms down enough to speak.

"It's Marie," Vickie says. She pulls the doll so it sits between them in Joan's lap. "Her heart's stopped, mama."

Joan makes a show of examining the doll. "She seems alright." Vickie doesn't look convinced. Joan smiles at her. "Dolls aren't like people. They don't have hearts."

"Marie does. I heard it. It went, tik-tak, tik-tak."

Joan stops breathing. "Let's see then," she hears herself say. She rips the doll's dress open. Vickie protests. Joan barely hears her daughter over the blood thrumming in her temples.

There is a clock embedded in Marie's chest. The size of a penny, right where a human heart would be.

"See?" Vickie says, sluggish. Joan's eyes snap to her daughter's face. Is the girl paler than usual? Are the clock's hands slowing in the doll's chest? Joan's heart is in her throat. Cold terror has her clutching her daughter and the doll both.

Joan grabs for the phone on her nightstand. Her fingers slip over the buttons on the receiver, misdialing twice.

"Hello?" a woman groans.

"I need you to look after Vickie."

"Joan?" Sarah sounds more awake now, and worried. "God, is everything-"

"Please, there's no time. I'm going to drop Vickie off as soon as I can. Look after her, alright?"

Sarah promises she will. Joan ends the call, cutting off her sister's frantic questions. She has Vickie dressed in her coat and boots and in the car within minutes. Joan throws the doll in the front passenger seat. Vickie doesn't ask to have it with her in the back. The girl is slumped in her car seat, uncharacteristically quiet. Joan talks the entire drive to Sarah's house, keeping her tone as light as she can make it. Vickie responds from time to time. She does so less and less as the minutes tick by.

Sarah is waiting for them. She has the front door open as soon as the car pulls in the driveway, rushing to meet them.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," Joan says. She hands Vickie to her sister. Sarah hugs the girl, bouncing her a little in her arms. Joan kisses Vickie's cheek. "Bye, sweetie. Be good for aunt Sarah, alright?"

"Where're you going?" Sarah demands.

Joan shakes her head. She kisses her sister's cheek, too, and goes back inside the car.

"Joan! Wait!" Sarah calls after her. Joan waves and turns the car around.

There's no time to waste on waiting.

***

The drive to the city is quiet. The roads are mostly empty; few people are out this early on Christmas morning. Joan speeds whenever she can get away with it.

The doll lies as Joan had thrown it. Its dress and hair are rumpled. Its glass eyes stare vacantly at the car's ceiling. The clock in its chest ticks away, the sound growing softer with every mile.

"I don't remember buying you," Joan says.

She doesn't. Yet, she is driving with a perfectly clear goal in mind.

The store is small. A single door leads to it from the street outside, framed by brick wall rather than display windows. Joan parks by a nearby meter. She grabs the doll and leaves the car.

The sign over the door reads, Crossroads. The letters are faded. There is no notice on the door to show whether the store is open or closed or in business at all. Joan twists the brass handle. The door opens, revealing a dark hallway. Joan steps inside and closes the door.

The hallway doesn't twist or turn. It goes straight for half a dozen steps and ends abruptly in front of another door. It is heavy and cold to the touch, and doesn't open as easily as the first. Joan pulls on the handle with all her might. She is able to part the door just enough to slip inside. It clangs shut behind her, like teeth snapping closed.

Joan finds herself standing in a small, brightly lit room. Shelves and display cases clutter the space. They are all bare. Joan turns in a circle. She freezes when she comes to face the back wall. The room is made of wood and stone but for a wide stretch of wall that is sheer glass. Large wheels sit behind it, still and quiet.

A stopped clock.

"You do not belong here."

Joan startles. The doll slips from her hands to clatter against the floor. Joan doesn't react. Her eyes are on the man sitting behind a register that had been empty a moment ago. Her throat is dry. Her heart beats fast, like a hare's on the run.

"You can't take her. I won't let you," she says.

Joan can't see the man's face. Her gaze slips over it and away no matter how hard she tries to keep him in sight. Still, she feels his eyes on her. Assessing. Deciding.

"Time must be had," the man says.

Joan shudders. Time - her daughter's time. Her daughter's life.

Joan squares her shoulders.

"Take mine, instead."

The man raises his right hand.

"Bring the doll."

Joan bends on shaky legs. She grabs the doll. Each step forward is a struggle. It is as if something is pulling her back, urging her away. Joan keeps going. She won't give Vickie up.

"Place it here."

Joan puts Marie on the counter. The doll's face is cracked where it had struck the floor. One of the eyes rolls loosely in its plastic socket to stare at Joan.

The man puts his hand over the doll. The tips of his fore and middle fingers rest against the small clock in Marie's chest.

"You will part with your time in exchange for your daughter's," the man says.

"Yes."

"You do so of your own free will."

Joan's eyes well. "Yes."

"Your word is binding."

The man's fingers press down. Glass breaks. When the man lifts his hand, a blackened hole gapes where the clock had been in the doll's body.

Joan feels weak with relief. It takes her a moment to realize that the man has pushed something across the desk. A small gift box. She is reaching for it before the man has a chance to bid her do so. Whatever it was that had been holding her back is gone now. Joan removes the box's top. Her breath stutters when she sees what lies inside.

Her wristwatch. The one Paul had given her on their very first anniversary. Joan had buried it in the backyard, unable to throw it away as she had done with all the rest.

"Your word is binding," the man repeats.

Joan slips the watch on. She clasps it closed with shaking fingers. The seconds hand is ticking merrily in its circular path. It slows as Joan watches. She grips the desk, suddenly unsteady.

A second later, her body crumples. The watch ticks no more.

The man stands. The register disappears. Shadows swallow the rest of the room, disintegrating wooden floors and brick walls and the human woman lying dead in their midst. She will be found in her car come morning. The watch will be around her wrist.

The glass wall glows bright in the gloom. The man's face reflects in it: Features of a beast, eyes of a snake. His pleasure is immense. Time can be stolen only in pieces, and at great cost to the thief. To receive half a century as a gift is most gratifying. The wheels behind the glass creak and shake, trying to grind to a start. It won't be long until the seal keeping them still is broken. The clock will start measuring time again before the year is through.

Counting down until the end rather than toward the future.

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